


Keeping Vigil

by Iactura



Series: Historical One-Shots [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1949, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Brothers, Gen, Heavy Angst, Historical Accuracy, Human, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, POV First Person, Post-World War II, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 17:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iactura/pseuds/Iactura
Summary: It has been four years since the fires raging over Europe died down.The scars of war are still clear on Berlin's ravaged buildings and in the hearts of its people. Amongst them, Ludwig keeps vigil and waits for his brother to come home.





	Keeping Vigil

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sonderweg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067526) by [Prince_of_Elsinore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore). 



> Note: 
> 
> I do not own Hetalia. This story is heavily inspired by Aus der Traum by YoBeezy on FF.net and Sonderweg by PrinceofElsinore. Please do check out their stories as they are absolutely amazing. 
> 
> Also, the relationship between Ludwig and Gilbert is kept vague intentionally. It is up to you, dear reader, to decide whether you wish to see them as just brothers or something more.

Every morning, I wake up to stillness beside me.

Your warmth isn’t there anymore and somehow, the creeping coldness found its way, past the layers of blankets, and into my heart. I don’t want to leave the shadows of our room. The sounds of construction outside my window are the only signs that out there, life still carries on.

Normality.

The word doesn’t mean anything now. Not since you’re gone. It’s like all colours drained out of my vision, covering everything with a grey veil. Grey like the uniform they forced onto you, just barely eighteen.

Not a man. Still only a boy.

It’s winter again. Four years has passed and still no word from you. They all tell me it’s useless, that your fate is no different from the millions of others, drowned by the waves of a war far beyond our comprehension.

Cannon fodder.That’s what they made you.

Ripped your humanity right from your heart, stripped you of an identity and packed you into the trains like animals to a slaughter.The very thought of such an effervescent spirit as your own, lost to the masses of aimless shades that are the war dead, haunts me.

How could that light in your eyes ever be snuffed out by the unrelenting snow?

How could that exuberant step ever be halted by the whistling of a bullet?

How could that oh-so-distinctive laughter of yours ever be replaced by the screams of the dying, or, stolen by the silence of the dead?

* * *

 

- _Hey Lutz! Come out and play with me. It’s lonely without you, even though you don’t say anything.-_

Oh, dear Gilbert, if only I can play with you now. I would keep on talking and talking and I will never stop. Anything to keep away the quietness that now echoes through my world.

* * *

 

As I walk through the street where we once ran, I notice that Frau Muller’s place has been rebuilt. It looks identical to the original but the family that lives there now is not the old lady who bandaged your leg when you were too scared to ask mother.

That place is gone. No matter how many houses they rebuild, the people once gone will never come back.

Just like our house.

Just like you.

* * *

 

The airstrip is busy with planes landing every thirty seconds. Work is hard but I find it easier to lose myself in the repetitive rhythm of unloading plane after plane.

Being so close to the machines reminds me of my childhood dream. The stupid boy I was would have done anything to fly a plane, to be like those young heroes whose images adorned the magazine covers and whose names (Hartmann and Marseille) were spoken with such admiration and awe.

And I distinctively remember your response when I told you how much I wanted to join the Flieger HJ.

_-Have you lost your mind? You idiot! I don’t care what the teachers say but you will not go anywhere close to them. Not if you want to live past your twentieth birthday. If I hear of this again, I swear that I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll end up in America. Maybe then, they can beat some sense into your thick skull.-_

So, I didn’t end up joining and you saved me yet again. Would probably be a pile of ashes now if you hadn’t screamed at me.

But sometimes, late at night, when I just can’t stop seeing your red eyes when I close my own, I wish I hadn’t listened.

At least we would be together now.

* * *

 

The road back home is deserted at this time of night. With the freezing weather, it isn’t a surprise that people opted for the warmth of their blankets and couches.

I, however, am reluctant to return to the oppressive weight of our house. Sitting there alone, I cannot help but feel as if something is creeping behind me and breathing down my neck. I turn around to search for the flash of silver hair that I so surely saw in the edge of my vision, only to find that it was merely a fragment of my restless imagination.

They say that seeing illusions is a sign of impeding madness.

Perhaps my mind is finally unravelling after years of sleepless nights. Maybe I too will one day lose myself to the memories of simpler times, just like the soldiers who laugh and play like children to escape the horrors of what they had seen.

No.

That wouldn’t do. Promised you that I’d be strong while we were standing on the platform. You held me tight against your chest, let my tears be soaked by the thick winter scarf mother just had finished the evening before, even though your own terror was painstakingly obvious.

Your hands came up to my face, disproportionally large next to my hollowed cheeks.

Cold and clammy, not the hands of a human.

They were the hands of a walking corpse. One whose future was set the moment he entered adulthood.

- _Promise me Lutz, that when I’m gone, you’ll take care of mother. You are the only one left. No more tears because only little boys cry. Not men and you are a man now. Don’t disappoint me Lutz.--_

You smiled but it was dead.

Dead like the smile of the abandoned porcelain doll almost buried by the street-side rubble.

- _I love you baby brother. Don’t be scared for me because I’m going to find father now. And when I see him, I’ll make sure to tell him how much you’ve grown. It won’t be long until it’s all over. –_

The whistle blew, its shrillness grossly inappropriate for the scene that was playing out. There was nothing I could do except stand dumbly as you were rounded up and disappeared into the carriage.

Useless.

Absolutely useless.

I knew I’d failed you when I tasted salt on my lips.

* * *

On that unpretentious January morning, the last eagle fell from the sky.

* * *

 

Monotony.

You stare back at me, expression same as always.  

We’ve done this so many times that I can trace over your fading features eyes closed.

The sharp lines of your nose and jaw, the defiant smirk twisting you lips and the eyes that betrayed your youth. Below, the crisp lines of a uniform fresh from the hands of enslaved Polish women.

Then there are the charred edges of paper, crumbling bit by bit until one day it all falls apart into a pile of ashes, the same type that rained over the ruins of our city.

Fingers hover over the worn surface of the photo, afraid that they will eventually rub away the last traces of your existence.

Eighteenth of January.

Happy birthday Gilbert.

You’re twenty-three today, same as how you were twenty-two last year, twenty-one the year before.

And you’ll turn twenty-four next year, but my memories of you will always remain frozen in time;  ’44 Winter in the station, ’41 Autumn in Munich, ’38 Summer on the Baltic shore and 34’ Spring sitting on your lap.

I only have one picture of you. Out of all the family albums, only this one survived the fires. I know how much you hate it, a constant reminder of your only defeat. But it’s all I have left. Eighteen years of happiness and pain, joy and fear, love and sorrow reduced to a piece of paper, disintegrating into nothingness.

I can almost envision your final moments. Hundreds of different scenes play out like a broken, mismatched film. A discordant symphony echoing in my mind. Did you charge with your bayonet ready, howling defiance into the wind? Perhaps you shielded a little blond boy who reminded you of me. Were you scared or did you welcome Death’s embrace with resigned acceptance.

 Or maybe you died alone at night on the bloodied hospital floor, with only fever-induced hallucinations for company.

I stop before tears can form. You hated seeing me cry. Would’ve rather taken my beatings instead than see me hurt. Yet, despite all you did for me, I still cannot hide my weakness nor fulfil my promise.

Father had just two sons but it is the wrong one who survived.

* * *

 

Penelope waited eleven years for Odysseus’s return. I am willing to wait a lifetime for yours.

The clock ticks onwards.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

The portrait keeps silent vigil for another night.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during the height of the Berlin airlift, a period of 11 months in which the Soviets cut off all access and supplies to West Berlin as a response to US and the UK denying it more say in Germany's economic future. In order to keep West Berlin's citizens alive, an airlift was ordered and hundreds of planes delivered necessities to the encircled city. Unloading of the supplies mostly done by the civilian population (hence Ludwig) in return for additional rations. 
> 
> The Flieger HJ Ludwig mentions is a branch of the HJ focused on training future pilots. He also mentions two extremely famous pilots: Hans-Joachim Marseille and Erich Hartmann. 
> 
> Please feel free to provide feedback as this is my first piece of writing.


End file.
